Big Iron on His Hip
by Irishninja97
Summary: The story of a former NCR Ranger and an escaped slave as they struggle to survive against the Wasteland's wildlife and the mercenaries sent to hunt them. And who knows? Maybe there will be some romance between the two.
1. The Midnight Ranger

"The Wasteland… a desolate place darkened by the shadow of a dead civilization. There are no heroes… only survivors…" –Foreword from Wayside Creation's fan film _Nuka Break_.

The sun beat down on the harsh desert landscape of the Mojave Desert, or what was left of it anyways. Ever since the bombs fell two centuries ago, the world was transformed from the largely populated, green place into a sparsely populated and uncivilized wasteland. The Mojave Desert was now the Mojave Wasteland, a little slice of heaven just east of the Sierras. Home to Hoover Dam, under the control of the New California Republic, and the city of New Vegas, ruled by the ever mysterious autocrat Mr. Robert Edwin House. Across the Colorado River, Caesar's Legion was sharpening their knives and waiting for the correct moment to finish the business they started years ago: take Hoover Dam and drive out the NCR.

This story begins in the area east of Camp Forlorn Hope. A man, looking in his mid-twenties, about six foot three, is walking in the wild, uncivilized desert. His brown hair is combed neatly, his eyes sitting behind a pair of sunglasses. He scratches the rough beard that he sports while constantly on the eye out for danger. This man is John Mercer.

Mercer lived in Shady Sands, the capital of the NCR. He served during the First Battle of Hoover Dam as an NCR Ranger. He braved the fighting on the dam, but was forced to fall back after General Oliver gave the order. But their efforts in retreating did lead the Legion forces into Boulder City, where a trap set for them obliterated the Legate's troops. Enough so to win the battle for the NCR. In the aftermath, however, an explosion from a Legion grenade sent shrapnel flying into Mercer's helmet, not killing him but leaving a nasty scar on his left cheek. After that, when it came time to enlist, he didn't. He took to exploring the wastes. He hung up the black Pre-War riot armor and walked. He kept the duster and the Sequoia.

Mercer had stopped in Novac for the night for some rest. His latest exploits had called him towards the REPCONN Launch Site to the north, but hit a dead end when the crazy ghouls that lived there didn't have anything to trade. But a traveling merchant in Novac passed on some information about some caves over to the east of Camp Forlorn Hope that seemed promising. Little did Mercer know that the cave he will soon venture into would change his life.

Mercer stopped and pulled open the map that the merchant in Novac had given him. _If that bastard was right, I should be coming up on the first cave before sundown._ He thought, staring at the map. It was about six o'clock PM and the sun was hanging low. Mercer folded up the tattered paper and slipped it into his ranger duster and trudged on through the rugged terrain. As per his predictions, Mercer was within view of the cave. _Well, I'd better set up camp. I'll save the cave diving for tomorrow. _He thought, setting down his pack and unrolling his bedroll. A lighter was pulled out of his pocket and was used to make a small fire. It was enough to cook the gecko meat he had collected. _Ah, a bedroll to sleep on after a meal of gecko. I feel spoiled. _Mercer thought as he lies down and succumbs to the veil of sleep.

He awoke with a start as he heard voices coming from the cave. Mercer looked up at the stars and figured it was around two o'clock in the morning. He sat up and went into a crouch as he quietly peeked around the rock he was taking cover behind. Mercer caught sight of a campfire in the cave and also saw about five people. He grabbed the binoculars in his pocket and held them up to his eyes in order to get a better look. _Four men, and one… woman? _Yes, there was a woman there. She wore a strange looking collar around her neck. Then, Mercer looked at the men around her. They were clad in sports equipment, dog heads, and one wore a plumed helmet. _Legion… _He thought, the hatred burning deep inside him, _and that girl… she's a slave._

Now, Mercer had a choice to make. He either turns around and leaves this girl to her fate, or he could kill the legionaries and free her. If he left, this girl would be subject to serving the whims of some centurion across the river, or to Caesar himself. Of course, if Mercer came to the rescue of the damsel in distress, he would have to escort her to safety. He had great faith in himself that he could take down four legionaries. After pondering for a moment, Mercer decided to kill the legionaries.

Mercer crouched down and began sneaking over to the cave. The legionaries didn't suspect a thing as the ex-ranger remembered his stealth training and managed to get to a rock close to the cave, until he kicked a rock and caught their attention.

"What was that?" One said.

"Might have been a gecko… or maybe a profligate who's lost," another replied.

"Quirinius, go check whatever it is!" A gruff voice barked. That must've been the centurion.

Mercer swore under his breath as he pulled out his machete gladius (a souvenir he had looted from a dead Centurion while he was in the NCR), ready to take the life of the legionary when he came close enough. The shuffle of the man's feet against the sandy ground helped identify how close he was. Just as he turned the corner, Mercer sprung towards him, stabbed him in the neck, and tossed the corpse down to the dirt. Afterwards, Mercer slipped his gladius back in the sheath on his boot, pulled out his Sequoia, and continued to sneak over to the cave. He was just at the mouth of the cave as he slipped out a flashbang grenade and tossed it into the cave. After it popped, he heard the sudden moans of the men inside. Mercer popped out and shot the two legionaries with his black and gold revolver, killing them both. Apparently, the centurion hadn't been much affected by the grenade and he proceeded to charge at Mercer.

Mercer gasped for air as he was tackled and smacked down hard on his back and he lost hold of his Sequoia. The centurion pinned him down and looked at his duster. He smiled with sick satisfaction. "You weak Profligates do not stand a chance against the mighty Caesar," the centurion heckled as he pulled out his machete gladius, "I'll spare you the shame of seeing our flag fly over the dam." The centurion raised the blade above his head and stabbed, but Mercer grabbed the wrists of his attacker and kept the blade from penetrating his head. He managed to flip the centurion off of him and he stood up, pulling out his own gladius. The centurion rose and readied his gladius.

"This is a fight you will lose, Profligate," The centurion said. He lunged towards Mercer, slashing his weapon, but he parried it. This centurion was ferocious in his attacks. So ferocious that he began to be fatigued. The centurion gave one final slash and found Mercer's gladius in his abdomen. The man dropped to his knees and looked up at the cold metal barrel pressed against his forehead.

"Who's the Profligate now?" Mercer asked sardonically, "I'll see you in hell, you Legion bastard." He squeezed the trigger and the bullet tore through the centurion's head and came out the other side. The blood trickled from the hole in his head as he slumped over and died. Mercer slipped the Sequoia back into its holster and slipped the gladius back in its sheathe. Then he turned his attention to the girl with the collar. She was beautiful. Long, flowing brown hair, beautiful brown eyes, and a rather petite build. Why does the Legion always take the pretty girls?

"Sorry you had to see that," Mercer told the girl.

She shrugged. "Eh, I've seen worse. Plus, that bastard had it coming," she replied, "He kept eyeing me like I was a Brahmin steak."

"Yeah, legionaries aren't exactly the best people to have around. Here let me help you get that collar off."

After tinkering around with the collar, Mercer managed to deactivate it. He removed it safely from her neck. "My hero," she said sarcastically, "seriously, though, thank you." The girl gave him a soft kiss on the cheek.

"Anytime, ma'am. Here, let me help you up," Mercer said, taking the girl's hand and pulling her up, "I'm John Mercer."

"A pleasure, John. I'm Jessica, Jessica Sawyer," Jessica replied, "but my parents and siblings called me Jess."

This meeting in the Mojave was the initial act of a chain of events which would change the lives of the people this pair would run into. A great adventure in the Mojave Wasteland is about to begin.


	2. All Over a Game of Caravan

"Ah!" The cry broke the silence of the small house littered with medical equipment. A young man is sitting upright on a medical bed with his arm exposed, revealing the large mark left by sharp teeth. An older man with a moustache is applying some rubbing alcohol on the wound with a cotton pad. The elder stopped and looked up at the younger.

"Now John, I told you this would hurt. Unless you want to walk around with an infected arm, quit yelping," He said, sighing as he returned to his task of sterilizing the wound.

"Sorry, Doc. It's just that I've always managed to take out the gecko before it reached me. My rifle jammed and the son-of-a-bitch got me," John replied, "had to stab that thing with my gladius."

"I'll have no swearing in this establishment, John."

"Sorry, Doc."

"Alright, the wound is sterile. Now, I'm gonna get a bandage. Don't touch the bite!" Doc Mitchell said, standing up from his chair to get the bandage. He pulled on the wrap and tore off a large section, wrapping it around John's left arm, where the bite was. "There we go. That'll heal nicely."

"Thanks for patching me up, Doc," John said, giving him twenty caps for the treatment.

"Don't mention it! It's what I'm here for," Doc Mitchell responded, "You have a nice day, now, and careful around those geckos!"

The bite still hurt, but not as much as it had before. John slipped his NCR Ranger duster over his red calico shirt and patched-up jeans. The new tear on the left sleeve, which the gecko bite had ripped through, bothered him slightly. This jacket had seen better days; there were bullet holes, patches, and the bear emblem on the left shoulder was beginning to fade. Snapping out of the trance he was in, John opened the door, which creaked slightly, and exited Doc Mitchell's house to Goodsprings.

Goodsprings. The happiest little town this side of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. It was like a town right out of an Old World Western movie: A general store, a doctor's office, a saloon, and a bunch of little houses scattered about the area. Lots of caravans came to this area for the freshwater wells located outside of the town (hence the name "Goodsprings") and did some trading here and there before they hit Primm to the south. John had stopped in with his new companion, Jess, about a day ago. After staying the night, John's friend Sunny Smiles told him that there were some geckos over by the wells. Jess stayed at the saloon and played Caravan with some townsfolk while he, Sunny, and her dog Cheyenne went to clear out the geckos. During the course of it, John's hunting rifle jammed and he had gotten bit. The water was still safe from the geckos.

John looked around and decided to stop by the Goodsprings General Store to see if Chet could mend the tear in his jacket. Chet was a twitchy fellow who wouldn't do anything as long as he made some personal gain. He's been to New Vegas-twice. Both times he says he got real drunk and lost lots of caps. Hell, he'd probably go there a third time if he scrapes enough caps together and actually manages to make the journey. Who knows? Maybe he'd strike it rich and live the big life in Sin City.

A musty smell filled John's nose as he entered the little shop. It was rather dank, the only light coming from a few windows and a small lantern on the counter. Chet stood behind the counter, wiping down the counter while listening to the Mojave Music Radio. John strode towards the counter and stopped in front of it, tapping his foot to the beat of the song playing. Chet looked up and set down the rag.

"What can I do for you, John?" Chet asked, leaning against the wall.

"Yeah, there is," John replied, slipping off his duster, "I need this tear sewed up. Left sleeve. Can you do it?"

Chet took the duster and observed the tear, "What's the magic word?" He asked.

John pulled out ten caps and slid them over to him. _Snide little bastard_… John thought. Chet picked up the caps one by one and put them in the register. "I'll get it done. Come back in a few hours to pick it up."

John nodded and took his leave. He felt different without his duster; he felt alien, foreign. Now, he only had the short sleeved calico red shirt, the bandage on his left arm and his jeans. The duster was the symbol of a true ranger. Without it, he felt like an ordinary bum from California. _Come on, Mercer, it's only for a few hours. I'm sure you'll be fine without your duster. It's just an article of clothing…_ John thought. He trudged towards Trudy's Saloon. Easy Pete was sitting outside in his usual spot. The old timer had years of prospecting experience, and he was an expert with dynamite.

"Howdy, Easy Pete," John said with a wave of his hand.

"Howdy there, Johnny," Easy Pete replied with a tip of his hat. His attention turned towards the bandage on John's arm. "Took a bite from a gecko, did ya?"

"Yeah… my rifle jammed," John explained, "I'm gonna go inside…"

"Yeah, Johnny… watch out for them geckos… he he he," Pete chuckled. John tried to ignore him as he went into the saloon.

The first thing he saw was the familiar face of Sunny Smiles, a good friend of his. She greeted him with a smile as she walked over. "Howdy, Jack," Sunny said. She had always called him Jack, ever since they had met.

"Howdy, Sunny. Hello, Cheyenne," John replied, petting Cheyenne on the head.

"I see Doc patched you all up," Sunny said, nodding towards his arm.

"Yeah, sure did. Hey, where's Jess?"

"The brunette? She's playing Caravan with some strangers." Sunny pointed towards a booth near the bar. John thanked her and strode over. Jess was wearing her new brown leather jacket that she had found at an abandoned shack in the Wastes. She seemed to be winning, judging by the cards she had played. She was the only person who had ever beaten him at Caravan. The man across from her looked like trouble, but he was probably passing through.

"And… there! Two of spades. That's it, cowboy, I win!" Jess exclaimed.

"What? There's no way!" The man shouted, standing up, "you bitch! You'll pay!" The stranger pulled out a pistol and aimed it at her. John pulled out his Sequoia and pointed it at him.

"Leave me alone, stranger; this is between me and the broad!" The man exclaimed, looking at the revolver pointed at his skull.

"Given that the 'broad' is a friend of mine, I suggest you leave her alone," John replied. Sunny walked over with her varmint rifle in her hands.

"What's going on here?" She asked, looking at John then the stranger.

"This guy is angry that Jess beat him at Caravan. He pulled his pistol and got ready to shoot. Get him out of here," John ordered.

Sunny pulled the stranger over and prodded his back with the barrel of her rifle. "Alright, pal, get out and don't you come back."

"You don't know what you're doing, girlie. You kick me out, me and my friends will burn this town to the ground!" The stranger threatened.

"I'll take my chances. Now beat it!" Sunny yelled, prodding him again with the rifle.

"You've taken the wrong side, red-head. I'll be back! 24 hours!" He ran out of the door.

John noticed something about this man. He had seen his face somewhere before… a wanted poster. That was Vince Henson. He was the leader of a gang back in California until he was caught near Lake Tahoe and shipped off to the NCR Correctional Facility, or NCRCF. This man was a Powder Ganger. And when he said he would burn this town to the ground, he would do anything to make sure it was done. "Sunny… that was-"

"Yeah, I know," Sunny sighed, "Henson."

"We need to get this town ready for a fight," John suggested, "or those Powder Gangers will tear Goodsprings apart."

"Agreed. There's no telling what heat they'll be packing, but we have to fight. We have a day to prepare. We've beaten 'em before, we'll beat 'em again.


	3. Gunfight in Goodsprings

With the threat of Vince Henson's Powder Gangers threatening the small town of Goodsprings, the inhabitants have been preparing for war ever since Henson had left the place yesterday. The town had made a rag-tag militia armed with varmint rifles, five cartridges of .556 caliber ammo and leather armor. It was a group of about thirteen, John, Jess and Sunny included. Easy Pete let the group borrow his dynamite, but he wanted to stay out of this one. Doc Mitchell distributed medical supplies and stayed out as well since he had a bad leg. Chet had fixed John's NCR Ranger duster, so John felt whole again. He was leaning against the wall near the entrance to The Prospector's Saloon loading round into his hunting rifle cartridges. A man with binoculars was on the awning above him, keeping an eye on the wastes.

"John!" He yelled, "Here come the runners!" John stood up straight and saw the two boys barreling down the hill that lead to the Goodsprings Cemetery. They stopped in front of John, panting and sweating. "David, Ben, what's the news?" John asked.

"We saw 'em, sir! There were about fifteen of 'em, Henson included," said Ben, binoculars hanging around his neck, "out by the Yangtze Memorial."

"Armaments?" John asked.

"They're armed pretty heavily. .357 revolvers, some with .44s, plenty of dynamite and powder charges, some repeater rifles here and there, and one has a baseball bat," said Ben's older brother, David. David was fifteen and Ben was nine and they both had the same sandy blonde hair, "I think they'll be here within the hour if they continue at the same pace and some critters run into them first."

"Very good! Go back to your house and stay there until we send someone to give you the all clear. If no one comes…" John began. He rummaged through his pack and pulled out a 9mm pistol and loaded it, handing it to David, "use that to dispatch the curious."

"Yes sir!" The brothers said. They ran off to the small shack that was their home. _Here's hoping we win… wouldn't want to leave David and Ben here to try and fight. _John thought. Sunny walked over to John with a worried look on her face. He knew what was wrong.

"No luck with Primm?" He asked.

"They didn't give me anything. No men, no medical supplies, no guns, not even a measly bullet!" Sunny exclaimed, "I don't know how we're going to win this one, Jack… I just don't know."

John placed a hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry. We'll fight with all our strength. For the safety of Goodsprings." Sunny looked at him and nodded curtly.

Within a half-hour, Henson's Gang could be seen up on the hill of Goodsprings Cemetery. John could count fifteen; just as Ben had reported. They stood up there like stone sentinels, just watching the town. Looking for the right time to strike. Fifteen minutes had passed before they began to move down the mountain. Their guns gleamed in the setting sun like the teeth of a Deathclaw. The man in the back, Henson himself, ordered the group to come to a stop.

"I told you I'd come back, Goodsprings. We've got you outgunned and outnumbered, so if you surrender now… I'll at least take prisoners, dig?" Henson called out. After waiting for a moment, he smiled. "You asked for it! Let's go!"

John, Sunny, Jess, and the other seven militia men were taking cover behind anything they could. Some behind the broken truck outside of the saloon, some behind the boxes and crates outside, some behind houses. They had prepared for the worst, now they had to brave it. John loaded a new cartridge into his hunting rifle. "OPEN FIRE!" He shouted. The militia popped out from behind their cover and fired of a volley of shots instantaneously. Three of Henson's gang fell dead at the sound.

The Powder Gangers fired back, but weren't as lucky as the Goodsprings militia. They only killed one of the militia men. Shots were exchanged between sides, the sound could probably be heard from Sloan to the northwest and from Primm to the south. Men died, their bodies strewn on the ground like garbage. Every now and then a stick of dynamite was thrown and there was a deafening explosion. It came down to six men left from the Goodsprings militia and about eight left of Henson's gang. Goodsprings was still outnumbered, but the game was still anyone's to claim.

Someone from Goodsprings threw the last stick of dynamite they had. This dynamite landed at the feet of a Powder Ganger. Not just some ordinary Powder Ganger soldier, but the Powder Ganger who was carrying most of the explosives. He exploded like a firework on the Fourth of July, taking four of his buddies with him. Henson sounded the retreat, but John knew that if he let Henson live, he would just come back again someday. "Sunny, Jess! Get Doc and treat the wounded! You two, with me! Up the hill! We're hunting those gangers down!" John ordered. He fired a shot from his rifle and one of the Powder Gangers fell, rolling down the hill like a ball. John and his two militia men ran up the Goodsprings Cemetery hill.

Upon reaching the top, one of the militia men was shot down by Henson. John and the other militia man took cover behind to headstones, firing back at their enemy. Henson's two buddies were killed, leaving him the last Powder Ganger. Henson fired a shot from his revolver and killed John's last militia man, but before he could get shot, John rushed forward and tackled him and began a struggle. John was strong from his Ranger training, but his arm was weak from the gecko bite; he wasn't as strong. The two rolled around in the dirt until Henson got the upper hand and stunned John with a massive blow to the head.

"Say your prayers, pal!" Henson hissed, raising a rock to finish an already wounded John. But before he could, a shot rang out and a bullet pierced his hand. Henson didn't even get the chance to turn to his attacker before four more shots were loaded in his back. He groaned in pain and soon crumpled to the ground. Another corpse for the wasteland to claim. John forced Henson off of him to see who his savior was. It was David! He still had John's 9mm pistol. It was in his hand, and he had saved not just the former NCR Ranger, but Goodsprings.

"I told you to only use that in an emergency, David!" John exclaimed.

"So, is that how a Ranger thanks someone who saved their ass from piece-of-shit Powder Gangers?" David replied. John shrugged.

"Well… I should thank you… thank you, David. The Savior of Goodsprings!" John laughed.

Goodsprings had been saved from Henson and his gang thanks to the men and women who sacrificed their lives fighting the Powder Gangers. David was celebrated as a hero, having killed a wanted man, and he received a considerable amount of caps for turning in the bounty to Mojave Outpost. He offered to split some with John, but he declined. David had earned the caps and John saw it as a fit payment for taking down a dangerous criminal.

The time came for John and Jess to leave Goodsprings and move on with their wanderings of the Mojave. They left without saying goodbye, because they knew that someday they would return to the quaint little town of Goodsprings in the future.


	4. The Northbound Caravan

The sun was just beginning to rise in the east over the desolate Mojave Wasteland. Two figures navigate their way across the rocky landscape, the lack of light allowing only their silhouettes to be seen. They are this story's protagonists: John Mercer and Jessica Sawyer. The ex-ranger and the escaped slave. They were making their way to the source of a radio broadcast that was being transmitted by a caravan company. The man over the radio said they needed some guards for a caravan run up to some of the northern states: Utah, Idaho, and Montana, mainly. This was the first time John had ever heard of any Mojave caravan company going up that far into the unfamiliar lands of the north in hopes they can sell supplies to make some caps. John saw this as a good opportunity to earn caps while seeing the rest of America-what was left of it, at least. Jess heartily agreed.

The sun had now risen above the desert and bathed it with light. John looked at the sun to determine what the time was. About 6:30. "Alright… let's have some breakfast," John said, "then we'll continue north towards the broadcast signal." John broke off some wood from a nearby uninhabited and damaged house, and then set it alight with two matches after pouring some whiskey on it. The fire was set. John pulled out a frying pan and told Jess to hold it over the fire. She did as she was told. John made two Wasteland Omelets with their leftover ingredients. "Well, now we're probably not going to eat something like this for a few days," Jess chuckled.

John stamped on the fire until it was no more and prepared to set out. Suddenly, Jess let out a yelp that made John stand upright. He turned around and saw the muzzle of an assault rifle aimed at his head by a strange looking fellow in leather armor. The man had two other men similarly armed and dressed beside him. These men looked like freelancers; mercenaries. They often hunted bounties for the highest payer. The leader looked to be the man on the right of the one who was pointing the gun at John's head. He held a piece of dirty paper in his hand. John could make out see some writing, but couldn't quite make it out. The man cleared his throat and began to read from the paper.

"To all bounty hunters and mercenaries: Caesar's Legion is offering a reward of two hundred caps for the return of escaped slave Jessica Sawyer. She is to be kept alive and returned healthy and well. Return her to Centurion Sergius Paulus at Cottonwood Cove for compensation," He lectured, then showing the drawing of Jess on the paper. It looked exactly like her. "So, sweetheart, I suggest you come along quietly unless you want your buddy's brains splattered all over this here rock."

"Hey, Jo," The man to the left of the one pointing the gun at John's head, "Isn't that the one who they was offering a bonus for?"

Jo, the one with the paper, looked over it again and read aloud, "A bonus payment will be given for John Mercer, the man who set the slave free. Alive: two hundred caps. Dead: one hundred caps. Be warned: He is lethal. Take alive only if deemed possible…" Jo snickered, "Two hundred extra caps for this lethal bloke? This deal is getting better every moment!"

"I have a proposition for you…" John began, "How about you take Jess and I pay you two hundred caps and you let me go?" The man with the gun turned his head to consult his other gang members, and murmurs of "That sounds fair…" could be heard. John took this time to restrain the assault rifle holder in a chokehold with his left arm. He took his right hand and pulled the trigger on the assault rifle, letting out a spray of bullets. Jo and the other guy fell dead at the sound and the man with the assault rifle was strangled to death. John observed the bloody scene with a sigh. "This just keeps getting worse and worse, doesn't it?" He told himself. He walked over to Jo's bullet-riddled corpse and picked up the paper he held. It had some blood stains, but was still readable.

"Well, they found us…" Jess said with a look of fear upon her face, "They're going to try and take me back…" Tears began to well up in her eyes. John turned around and strode over to her. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he said, "No. Nothing's gonna harm you. Not while I'm around. I won't let them take you away, Jess. They'll have to pry you from my cold, dead hands if they want you. I'm here to protect you. That's my quest." Jess, hearing these words, began to smile a little and wipe the tears away.

"Thank you, John…" She sniffled. She straightened her posture and cleared her throat. "Now what are we waiting for? We have that caravan company waiting or us! We have the chance to see what's outside of the Mojave right in our reach! Let's go!" Jess ran off to the west. "Jess!" John yelled. She turned. "This way!" John pointed north.

"Right!" Jess ran past him. John chuckled and began to follow.

A few hours later, the two caught sight of a small camp inhabited by men, women, and two or three pack brahmin. Some people were gathered around the fire, others were loading packs with supplies for the long road ahead. A large man with a huge beard came pacing towards the two. It wasn't until he stood before him that John realized just how tall he was. This man towered over John by a good nine inches, his gray eyes staring down at the shorter ranger. John cleared his throat and began to speak: "We're here for the caravan trip?"

The giant's face was slowly turning into a smile. He clapped a huge hand on John's shoulder and gave out a hearty laugh. "Well, of course you are! Who wouldn't want the chance to see the mysterious lands north of here? No caravan in all of the NCR's been up to Montana, and by gum, we'll be the first! History in the making!" The giant had quite a loud voice. John couldn't help but smile when he compared the man before him to an Old World picture of a mountaineer.

"Yes! We're here for the caravan heading to the northlands. Are you the leader of this expedition?" John asked.

The man nodded. "Sure am, pard. The name's Atticus Finch Wilks, caravaneer for the Saratoga Caravan Company."

"Atticus Finch? Like from To Kill a Mockingbird?" John inquired.

"Good to know some people still read these days," Atticus remarked, "yes, pard. From the book. It's a classic! ... I like you, boy! What's your name?"

"John Mercer, former NCR Ranger. This is my friend Jess." Jess said hello and Atticus tipped his hat in return. Then he spoke: "A former Ranger, huh? Well, butter me and call me a flapjack! I struck it lucky today! With your experience, we should be safe as houses! Welcome aboard, friends!"

"Thank you kindly!" John said. Jess looked around and let out a low whistle. "Quite a lot of folks you got here, Finch."

"Well this'll be the biggest operation we've undertaken since we left Saratoga to set up a branch in the Mojave. We have three pack brahmin: Gerald, Mayella, and Tabitha. They're all loaded up with supplies and goods to sell any people who may be up there. Oh, I'm getting excited just thinking about it! Our little caravan company will be the first to make a trip to the north and come back! It tickles me pink just thinking 'bout it!" Atticus exclaimed with a huge smile, "We are leaving tomorrow at dawn and won't be back for a couple o' months, so I hope you all said your good byes and are ready for the long journey ahead."

"Oh, trust me Finch, we're ready!" Jess cried out, "Montana, here we come!"

"That's the spirit, little lady! It's that kind of enthusiasm that will make this whole trip worthwhile!" Atticus shouted excitedly, "Now, make yourselves at home! We're glad to have you and we'll treat ya' fair. You'll receive your pay when we return, and your pay depends on how much of a success this grand journey is. So, settle down. Rest. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow!"


	5. Blood Gulch

The sun was dead center in the blue sky, indicating that it was already midday. The puffy clouds rolled on by with the breeze of the Idahoan Wasteland. The people of the Mojave didn't know much about Idaho and the other states north of Nevada, but the Saratoga Caravan Company was determined to find out more. Over a period of twelve years, they scraped together enough caps to make the journey possible. Three pack Brahmin loaded with goods to sell, ten personnel, and a dream. The caravan had been in Idaho for only a few days and had not found much luck. To be blunt, Idaho was pretty empty. There was no luck in Utah due to brewing tensions between the White Legs and the Dead Horses in Zion. A detachment of the Happy Trails Caravan Company had gone missing in Zion, so Atticus decided to steer clear of that place. "Too dangerous," he said, "plus, we need to know more about the north. That's our goal!"

John was walking alongside the first Brahmin in the caravan train. Atticus always called him Gerald, the only bull Brahmin in the train. You could identify him by looking at the small NCR flag sticking out of his pack. The other two were Tabitha and Mayella. The caravan hadn't come across a settlement in the four days they had been in Idaho, and things were looking rather bleak. The water supply was beginning to run low and if they didn't find a settlement with a water supply they were willing to share, it could mean a long death by dehydration. Atticus was determined that they would find a town soon enough.

The good thing about Idaho was there weren't many threats. The only things that were ever seen were geckos, and they usually stood clear. If they got to close, well, a guard would put a slug in its skull. Done and done. Hopefully there wasn't any super deadly monster in Idaho that was responsible for the lack of settlements. John said a silent prayer that they would find a town soon. There seemed to be a hill in front of them, so they began climbing. The climb took a few minutes thanks to Tabitha's not wanting to go up the hill, but at the top, the whole caravan crew could see salvation. The hill swooped down into a small gulch, and at its center was a small settlement with fifteen or so buildings surrounded by a scrap metal wall. The caravaneers cheered with delight and began to make their descent.

Ryan stood on the lookout balcony above the entrance to the town. The sniper scope was pressed up against her eye, the breeze blowing her sandy blonde hair which came down to her ears. On her forehead were a pair of goggles which were trying to hide behind her bangs, but were still visible. She kept an eye on the group of people coming over Badger Hill. Though she was only fourteen, Ryan was one of the best shots in Blood Gulch. She was also the only person besides her dad who shot left handed in the small town of about thirty. The strangers coming over the hill had a few Brahmin with them, carrying a lot of stuff which Ryan couldn't make out. Many of the people were armed, carrying pistols, revolvers, repeaters, rifles, and shotguns. It almost looked like they were on a warpath, but Ryan didn't know for sure, so she didn't fire. Maybe they were curious travelers. But Ryan had to follow her orders: If anyone suspicious is heading towards the town, warn the sheriff. Ryan slung the rifle over her shoulder and began running across the rooftops of the houses until she reached a ladder leading to the thoroughfare. She slid down quickly and ran for her house.

"Pa! Pa!" Ryan pounded on the rusty door until it opened to a man with a dark brown moustache wearing a hat. "Pa, there are folks headin' for the town! They got over Badger Hill a few moments ago and they are armed heavily!"

"Really?" the sheriff asked, "Strange, we're not expecting any folks, and the caravans don't come 'til September." He stepped outside and yelled, "Alright, folks! Code yellow! Everyone get your weapons and take cover! We got suspicious folks comin' this way!" The sheriff yanked his .44 revolver out of its holster and ran to his code yellow position: a small alley between his house and their neighbor's. Ryan climbed to the top of the Johnson's house and laid low. She snickered at the thought of the looks on those strangers' faces when they realize they came to attack the wrong town. Hopefully it wouldn't end up being a gunfight, but if it did, Blood Gulch's militia wasn't afraid of killing folks. Ryan shut her mouth and was dead silent when she heard the rattling of one of the Brahmin's loads coming closer to the entrance of the town.

John and Jess were standing next to each other in the middle of the caravan. The town ahead was quiet. Too quiet. "I don't like this," John said faintly to his compatriot, "there should be people here. Where is everyone?"

"Maybe they're frightened. Maybe they're setting up an ambush. Maybe the town is abandoned. Maybe they're all dead. The possibilities are endless," Jess replied.

"Perhaps… if they are all dead or gone it would be a shame, but maybe their water supply would still be there and at least we'll have a place to stay with water instead of sleeping out in the wild wasteland dehydrated."

"Here's hoping they're willing to trade." Jess crossed her fingers. In no time, the caravan was heading inside the scrap metal gate. The town was dead silent. It was like a ghost town in one of those Pre-War movies about cowboys. Atticus knew something was up as well. These houses looked like they hadn't been damaged, so no one would have a reason for abandoning the town. He called John and Jess up to him. "I don't like this, not at all." Atticus whispered.

"Neither do I. This is all very suspicious," John replied. Jess nodded in agreement. Atticus made the executive decision that could either save or slay the group.

"Hello? Is anyone here? Hello?" Atticus began shouting. He turned towards John and shrugged. Suddenly a whistle blew. Fifteen men and women with guns popped out. Most were on the roof, some were on the ground. They held rifles, pistols, and repeaters. One boasted an impressive looking Chinese Assault Rifle. A man with a moustache and a cowboy hat walked towards Atticus and yelled "All of you, weapons down! Put 'em down and no one gets hurt!" Since the caravan was seemingly outnumbered, they all put their weapons down and put their hands up. The man with the hat had a badge on his coat in the shape of a star. It had "SHERIFF" in big print on it.

"Alright, strangers, what 'a you doin' in my town? You ain't welcome here, but you come anyways. Who do you think ya' are? Kings of the Wastes? Answer me, dammit!" The Sheriff was beginning to get impatient. Atticus was the first to speak.

"We're caravaneers."

"You're a caravan? The caravans don't come around 'til September, pard. Now, where you from?"

"Nevada."

"Nevada?"

"Nevada, yes."

"What the hell's Nevada?" The Sheriff asked, quieting down a little.

"South of here. We're from the Mojave Wasteland."

"Mojave? Now that sounds familiar. That's the desert, right?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"But how do I know you ain't lying to me?" the Sheriff raised his voice again, "How do I know you ain't raiders comin' here to burn down the town, kill the men and rape the women? How do I? Huh?"

Jess spoke this time. "Um… we're to pretty to be raiders?" In a short time, all the people were laughing. They started soft and ended up laughing out loud. Even the Sheriff began to laugh.

"Yeah, I guess you are a little too well-kept to be raiders, ain't ya'?" The Sheriff said after he had stopped chuckling, "Welcome to Blood Gulch, quaintest little town in Idaho! The name's Terrence Ewell, town sheriff and mayor. Just call me Sheriff."

"Atticus Finch Wilks. A pleasure, Sheriff." Atticus and Sheriff shook hands. "Would you be willing to do some trading, Sheriff?"

"Well, we don't have very many caps. But if ya' need water, we have a freshwater spring in a nearby cave that we get water from. We'll trade you water for supplies you may have. What we need is ammo for our guns."

"Well, you're in luck, friend. We have ammo! I'm sure we can make a deal…" Atticus began, but John decided to explore the town a little. He noticed a girl with a sniper rifle heading over to an observation balcony over the entrance. John climbed up the ladder and followed the rooftops to the balcony where the girl stood, keeping an eye on the land. "Quite a nice duster you have there, stranger," the girl said, still not looking at John.

"Thank you. I could say the same about that gun of yours," John said, looking at the gun. It was a military standard issue sniper rifle, but it had some adjustments. It looked smaller, lighter. The magazines were extended, a sling was attached to go over her shoulder, and a well-painted layer of desert camouflage was all over the weapon. On the butt of the gun there was something written in black paint: Blood Gulch, ID.

"It took me five years to get 'er back in working condition," the girl said, now looking at John, "Pa told me that I couldn't use his rifle no more, so I found this one in a junkyard and made all the modifications myself. I'm the best shot in this town, stranger. Thanks to this beauty."

"Best shot in town, huh?" John asked, "Alright then. Prove it. See that gecko out on the hill?" The girl looked and nodded. "Shoot it. Here, I'll even provide the ammo so you don't waste yours." He tossed her a .308 caliber cartridge with the bullets inside. She caught it and loaded it into her gun. She took aim and waited for a little while. "Center of mass," she said. *Boom!* the gecko fell. John looked though his binoculars to see if she had hit where she said. Surely enough, there was a bloody hole in the center of mass.

"Good shot. My turn. Looks like his friend has gotten curious." John unslung his scoped hunting rifle and took aim. A slightly smaller gecko was investigating the corpse of his reptilian comrade. "Left eye." *Boom!* the gecko's orange eye had become a bloody red mess.

"Where'd ya' learn to shoot like that, stranger?" the girl asked.

"NCR Military."

"NCR?"

"Oh, sorry," John apologized, "New California Republic. They're a group based in California, just southwest of here. They're trying to make the American wasteland like the Pre-War democracy it was. They have run into trouble though."

"How so?" The girl asked.

John began to explain to the girl the NCR's situation in the Mojave. He told her about how they annexed the wasteland, how they control the area, how they keep the factions underneath them in check, and the war with Caesar's Legion. He told her about the First Battle of Hoover Dam and his role in it, even showed her the machete gladius he got from a dead Centurion and the scar where shrapnel from a Legion grenade broke through his ranger helmet and cut his face. "How about you? What are you like?" John asked the girl.

Ryan was amazed by the stories of this stranger. Normally, strangers were a problem and were either killed or driven away. And how he was involved with this NCR of his and how he fought the Legion bad guys on the dam. Then he asked her about her life.

"Oh, nothin' special…" Ryan said. She told him about how her mother died when she was born, how she grew up learning to shoot. She told him about how she never fit in with what few kids there were. She was accustomed to start fights and she normally won them, but her father punished her afterwards. How she had this crush on a boy who didn't know she existed and how she had her heart broken by him. How her ordinary job was to go north to Boise and look for things that could help Blood Gulch: Food, ammo, scrap metal, weapons, etc. "…and that's my story. As I said, nothin' special."

"Well, thank you for sharing." John said, "I'm John Mercer." He stuck out his hand.

"Ryan Ewell." She shook his hand and expected him to begin laughing at her name, since it was a boy's name. Her father had wanted a boy, but when she was born, her middle name was Ryan, and her father always called her that. But he didn't laugh. He just silently shook her hand. She noticed the sun was low in the sky and she stood. "Well, Pa should be up here soon. He normally keeps lookout at night. I guess you and your caravan are staying here for the night. I'm sure nobody would mind letting some people sleep in their houses. You can stay in my house, if ya'd like. My brother's bed is empty ever since he left to explore the wastes, so you can sleep there." Ryan offered, dusting off her jeans.

"I think I'll do that. Thanks," John replied. This was a nice town. They at least ask people what they're doing before they shoot instead of just gunning the group down. Truly an example to all survivors anywhere. Maybe tomorrow, John would ask Ryan to take him to this "Boise" she spoke of. Maybe there are people there to trade with. Surely the next day would be a brilliant adventure.


End file.
